A Yankee Flier with the R.A.F.

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A YANKEE FLIER WITH THE R.A.F.

THE HAWK DROPPED UPON THE BATTLE WAGON BELOW. THE HAWK DROPPED UPON THE BATTLE WAGON BELOW.
A Yankee Flier with the R.A.F.
Frontispiece (Page 120)

A YANKEE FLIER WITH THE R.A.F.

BY

AL AVERY

ILLUSTRATED BY

Paul Laune

GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK

Copyright, 1941, by

GROSSET & DUNLAP, Inc.

All Rights Reserved

Printed in the United States of America

[Transcriber’s note: Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE

I Glory Trail 1

II Cloud Tag 19

III Bill O’Malley 35

IV New Quarters 60

V O’Malley Bags a Jerry Gun 76

VI The Sea Dogs Growl 91

VII Salt Water Spray 111

VIII Stan’s Past Rises 131

IX Special Mission 149

X Ground Sleuthing 173

XI Plenty of Trouble 193

XII Luftwaffe in Reverse 200


A YANKEE FLIER WITH THE R.A.F.


CHAPTER I

GLORY TRAIL

Swing music was blaring from the radio set in the mess when Stan Wilson entered. His blue eyes, which gleamed with a great zest for living, gazed levelly around the room. There was a look in them which had been born of penetrating the blue depths of Colorado canyons and, later on, at the limitless spaces a flier sees. As usual, a half-smile, seemingly directed at himself, played at the corners of his mouth. There was seldom a moment so danger-filled that Stan Wilson could not laugh at himself.

Here he was, really a fugitive from his distant homeland, standing in the Royal Air Force mess while outside the closely curtained windows all of London lay under an inky blackout, listening and waiting for the whine of the bombers. Stan was to be a member of Red Flight, which had been taking on replacements so fast that even the Flight Lieutenant wasn’t able to get chummy with his men before they left him.

Stan smiled as he looked over the group in the mess. He had met Judd, a plump youth who was unofficially known as “jelly bean”; McCumber, a silent Scot who seldom smiled; and Tommy Lane, who never ceased to whistle tavern tunes. At a reading table scanning a paper sat Irish Kelley whose dark face and hawklike features made him look like a real lead slinger.

A man he did not know sat at a low table with a cup of black coffee before him. He was slender and even though his uniform needed pressing it seemed to fit him like a glove. His blond hair was closely clipped and the cool, gray eyes he lifted to meet Stan’s gaze held a hint of insolent mockery. This was March Allison, Stan knew at once. A crazy Flight Lieutenant who was fast making a name for himself by his savage fighting heart and his dizzy flying ability. Stan stepped toward the table.

Allison nodded to a vacant chair beside the table and Stan dropped into it.

“I’m March Allison,” he said and his cool eyes moved over Stan with irritating boldness. The superior air of the Britisher provoked Stan, but he refused to show it because he did not intend to lose his temper.

“I’m Stan Wilson,” he said, “the new member of Red Flight.”

“Stan Wilson, Canadian test pilot?” Allison clipped the words off in a manner that was almost derisive.

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